When we first moved to our cabin in the woods, more years ago than I care to mention, there were no turkeys left in that part of Pennsylvania. The primary 'game' bird was the pheasant, an introduced species from Asia. Oh, there were turkeys in small pockets in the State, but they'd not been seen in our area for nigh on many a year. According to the experts turkeys were in trouble throughout most of their range by the last quarter of the nineteenth century. A shame that, this was the noble bird that Benjamin Franklin wanted as the national symbol of the newly created United States of America rather than that carrion eating eagle everyone else was pushing for. The turkey lost out because, let's face it, even back then popularity equated with beauty and there is nothing more ugly than a turkey or more beautiful than an eagle.

In the 1980's the Pennsylvania Game Commission started releasing turkeys in our area as part of a larger project to re-establish the bird in it's former haunts. It was quite successful, though some folks were not sure it was the right thing to do. Most of these people lived in and around a small village called Ridge Valley. Their concern stemmed from a Tom turkey who for two years terrorized motorist, motorcyclist and bicyclist.

Ridge Valley is just a spot in the road, with two T junctions and two churches standing opposite each other at one junction. There are stop signs at both junctions. Tom, as he was so imaginatively nicknamed by the local populous, took up residence along the short stretch of road between the two T junctions. Woe betide any vehicle that slowed or stopped while he was on patrol. When not out pecking and scratching in the surrounding woodlands, Tom was to be found standing by the roadside, or, more often, standing in the road. He was a novelty at first. After all, nobody had seen a wild turkey in this neck of the woods for close on a hundred years. People started feeding Tom. He grew fat. He grew bold. He grew territorial. He grew nasty.

One morning on my way to work I pulled up to one of the stop signs and waited for an early morning cyclist to pass by, watching as he swerved to go around Tom who was standing in the road. The cyclist made the mistake of slowing down as he went by and quick as greased lightning Tom stabbed him in the leg. Well, I say stabbed, but I didn't actually see any blood, just a very irate cyclist who almost fell off his bike. He stopped, cursing... which was a big mistake. Tom was nothing if not the avian equivalent of Mike Tyson and he advanced, looking, I am sure, for a piece of this guy's ear... if he could reach that high. What ensued was quite funny to me, who sat safely locked up in my car. Tom danced around ducking and diving and the cyclist was hard pressed to keep his bike between him and the bird from hell. They advanced down the road as far as the other T junction where the cyclist was able to make his escape. Apparently Tom's territory extended no further. By now I had pulled out onto the road and as I approached that other junction, where stood Tom, I had to slow down to make my turn. In a flash I found myself under attack. Well my car found itself, with me in it, under attack. I could hear the steady thwack, thwack, thwack of that deadly beak beating a tattoo on my paintwork. I'm a vegetarian, but at that point in time I had visions of Tom, trussed and nicely browned on a platter of steamed vegetables.

As time passed, Tom grew bolder and became crafty. He now often squatted down, snoozing in the road. At the sound of an engine or the whirr of bicycle tires he would open one beady eye but remain quiet. Thinking he was sound asleep, people would try and sneak by. Have you ever tried sneaking in a car? It's even harder on a motorcycle. You would think bicyclists would have the advantage but that's not true at all. Tom knew all the tricks and was ready for each and every scenario. No one escaped. Legs were bruised, paintwork chipped and tempers frayed. All because of one damn ugly bird.

The press soon got wind of the story and Tom hit the big time. Several newspapers ran stories on the Turkey of Ridge Valley. Tom even got his picture in the papers. He was a real celebrity. And the people of Ridge Valley suffered. The people who had to travel through Ridge Valley suffered. You have to remember that we are talking out in the sticks in the middle of nowhere country here. To avoid Ridge Valley on your way to and from where ever meant a detour of a good 12 to 15 miles depending on where you were headed and where you were coming from. But what could be done? Nothing, turkeys were rare. Turkeys were protected at this time in this place. Tom could continue his campaign of terror with impunity. And he did... for over two years.

Then, one morning in the early part of November, I pulled up at the stop sign in Ridge Valley looking to see where Tom was today. The road was clear. I checked the churchyard edges. No Tom. I drove through Ridge Valley unscathed. On the way home later that day Tom was still nowhere to be seen. The next day was the same, and the next. It soon became evident that Tom was gone. Well and truly gone. People in the area heaved a collective sigh of relief. The newspapers ran another article speculating on Tom's disappearance. Though no one would say it outright, we all knew in our heart of hearts what had happened. Someone had broken under the strain. Someone had had enough of Turkey Terror. Someone had taken Tom home to Thanksgiving dinner.

You can blame Pari for this story. She said I should write something about my time living in a cabin in the woods. There are so many things I could write about, but the turkey that terrorized a village seemed a good place to start. Just for laughs I Googled Ridge Valley so you can see Tom's Territory where he reigned supreme for two years.